It's funny how dreams become achievements and then memories and then things in your past that once meant the world to you. I remember watching window shots in the movie Ratatouille, the ones that overlooked the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe and thinking that I would do anything to go there. And I did go there.
It was magical then, of course, just like it's magical now. It's the city that sparkles, the romance capital of the world. It holds some of the most beautiful art and architecture in the world, and every man knows how to wear a scarf like a sexy beast. Multicolored pastel macrons and chocolate croissants line the glass-covered bakery shelves, and fashion trumps comfort always.
Like any city, it's not perfect. Scam artists run rampant, whether they're charging you five euros to put your bag in a taxi for you or using a laminated sign asking you, in broken English, to help them reach their son currently held hostage by the prince of Nigeria. There is an endless supply of embarrassing moments to experience, even when you've been learning the culture and language for two months. There may be urine on the subway steps.
But I love it still. Not only because of all those enchanting little things that make the French culture and Paris in particular so beautiful, but because this place is always going to be that faraway city that might as well have been Neverland to my 12 year old self. It's always going to be that dream that came true. When people say its name, my heart will jump like the name of someone I'm head over heels for has been mentioned. I think those things we love all come to belong to us in some way. Paris is home to many people who perhaps have spent only a week or two of their lives in it. Though I may hate the train station and the keychain salesmen and the euro exchange rate, coming to Paris will always feel like visiting a childhood home I haven't seen in years. It's that place where part of me grew up, if only in my head.
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